The answer to most questions is a Mazda MX-5

When it comes to driving, there are few true rites of passage left. No more meandering home from the pub with one too many of your friends bundled into a hatchback, no more ripping donuts under the glow of yellow street lamps and definitely no more Fast and Furious-style drag racing. But the 'health and safety' mob can’t deny us a great British road trip, and surely no trip is greater than Land’s End to John o’ Groats.

Long before the first car ever put rubber to road, Brits have been trundling to and from the ends of the UK in every which way you can imagine. Only A and B are determined; at its shortest, the journey spans roughly 800 miles, so your chosen mode of transport is as much about endurance as anything else. Do you go for something classic? Something sporty? Or something comfortable? Why not a bit of everything?

My weapon(s) of choice for my first 'LeJog' were all four generations of the Mazda MX-5. If we were living in 1976, I’d pick an MGB GT V8 in a heartbeat and just accept that breaking down along the way was inevitable. But it's 2026 and I want to make it out of Cornwall without calling The AA, so its spiritual successor is the next best thing.

In true rat race style, our journey began before we even left the hotel. Fog worthy of a Japanese onsen obscured the landscape from my room and a 1990 Mk1 MX-5’s yellow headlights winked at me through the mist. Between me and my Scottish co-pilot Jim, who’s dangerously close to his bus pass, it was up to me to dash outside and claim the crystal white Mk1, so we could work our way through the models sequentially.

Just a decade prior to the MX-5’s launch, the MGB was the best selling sports car in Britain. While a two-seater roadster from a Japanese manufacturer might seem worlds away from this formula, the two have more in common than you might think.

As Mazda’s product planner in the 1980s, Bob Hall had a thing for British sports cars. During the Second World War, Hall’s Dad was stationed over here and, after the war, returned home to the USA with an Alta 2-Litre as a souvenir. He owned a string of 1960s and ‘70s British icons, which inspired Bob to add some Japanese reliability to the classic sports car impracticality he’d grown up with. And so, the MX-5 was born.

We decided to lean into the 'impracticality' from the off, as out of the haze came a not so bright idea: 'Let’s all make a pact to keep the roofs down and stay topless (behave), no matter what, until we reach the finish line.' Before I could answer, my co-pilot’s brogue voice gave an affirmative 'Aye' and we were off in search of sunnier horizons.

Around the first bend, the Mk1’s excitement was palpable, as it almost landed us in a ditch; its fidgety steering responds half a second quicker than you’d expect, darting into position before your brain catches up. Once you master it though, it’s immensely gratifying, but still slightly terrifying in the wet.

While 114hp in a sub 1-tonne car feels ideal on back roads, where all the fun is happening under 60mph, it lacks that extra oomph needed to make motorway miles tolerable. By noon, we’d conquered our first, fairly uneventful 300 miles to Bicester Heritage, stopping for finger sandwiches and milky tea, catching up with the sun we’d missed in the morning.

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The schlep onwards to Sheffield was an excruciating leg at 50mph on the M1 but being the enterprising lot we are, we channeled all our Scalextric experience into overtaking one another an inch at a time. We squawked on walkie talkies about specs and classic car eye spy. I started up a little jock translation service for my Scots companion since the static and accent combined meant no fully formed words came out at the other end. When we eventually fell into the hotel, I realised, thanks to our pact, I'd managed to give myself a colour match sunburn with the Soul Red Mk3 we’d been following.

Day two and we were off to Kendal mint cake country in a stunning 1999 10th anniversary Mk2. The high bite point of the clutch was the first hint that this example had spent more time being on the road and track than as a garage queen.

Unbeknownst to me, Cumbria was where the rally stage started. Everyone disappeared into the trees and the geography killed our comms. As any good rally driver knows, they’re only as good as their navigator and our sat nav had already given up the ghost. Not pointing any fingers, but this was my third road trip with Jim and we’ve managed to get lost every time.

There wasn’t time to fret though, lunch was waiting for us at the Windermere Motor Boat Racing Club and if you know anything about motoring writers, you'll know they don’t wait for anyone when it comes to food. So, we threw ourselves into the labyrinth of the Lake District and prayed we’d come out the other side.

The pocket-sized Dodge Viper settled into this groove where fourth helped you to build speed out of the bends and third would give you ample engine braking to control your speed into the next twist. Every straight was an opportunity to push fourth so hard that you could skip fifth up into sixth and I’m convinced I got air on more than one crest of a hill.

With lakes on one side and mountains on the other, each sweeping bend revealed something new, accompanied only by the aggressive chirp of the 1.8-litre four-cylinder engine. At 140bhp, it was way more gutsy than the Mk1 and far more willing to take abuse. Part of its charm is that it makes you feel like an accomplished driver; throw in some gold wheels and call me Coleena McRae.

At Carlisle we joined a deserted M6 and started practicing our cinematic driving combinations. Singing 2-4-6-8 Motorway we were like the most uncoordinated synchronised swimming team you’d ever seen. As the miles went on I began to develop a deep infatuation with the Mk2, so when Gretna Green came into focus I took it as a sign that we should elope together, with Jim as our witness, living out our days in Scotland.

Sadly, my time with the Mk2 ended before we could exchange vows. We swapped out into a 2014 25th anniversary Mk3 to cross into Scotland where we immediately hit a wall of water. Not in a cutesy April showers kind of way, in a 'get Noah on the phone' kind of way. Initially, I was pretty skeptical about the Mk3’s capabilities. It’s carrying a bit too much weight, takes itself far too seriously and is much more sensible than its predecessors. I also suspect it’s where the hairdresser car allegations started.

Thankfully, my co-pilot had a sneaky plan up his sleeve to show off the Mk3 at its best. Instead of sticking to the main roads, Jim diverted us across the countryside towards Edinburgh. We managed to lead two other MX-5s in our party astray and break away from the support car. Though, in hindsight, the support vehicle was equipped with sensible things that MX-5s don’t have like spare wheels, power tools, tow ropes, extra fuel…

Nevertheless, we felt like teens on a school trip that had managed to sneak away for a cheeky ciggie. And believe me, we took advantage of it. In the shadow of the valley, on beautiful flat winding roads, we honed our racing lines. Channelling our inner Knievals, we made it to the outskirts of Edinburgh out of breath and ruddy faced.

While we’d finally made it to the city, the rain still hadn’t let up, so much so Jim would have to bail us out at every traffic light. Once we got free of the congestion, we realised that 45mph was the perfect sweet spot to create a low-pressure air pocket around the cabin to keep us dry. Any slower and the rain would get in and water would flick off the windscreen wipers and land on our foreheads in big cold globs.

Despite its heft, where the Mk2 felt like it could be unsettled, the Mk3 hunkers down and sticks to the road like sh*t to a shovel. Each time I tried to hold out longer before braking, it taunted me for chickening out. Perhaps the Mk3’s biggest strength is why it feels like it drifts too far away from the original MX-5 ethos, it doesn’t feel breakable and that edge of destruction is what makes the first two generations so alluring.

At dusk we pulled up to Dunkeld House Hotel, a quintessentially Scottish bolt hole on the banks of the River Tay. While I longed to get up early and spend the next day in waders fly fishing for salmon, we tucked into dinner and a local dram before an early night ahead of our final leg.

Although driving chronologically felt like the only way to truly respect the lineage of the MX-5, it also turned out to be unintended genius, as we spent the coldest, most miserable day, battered by North Sea winds, sitting on our toasty Tunnock’s tea cakes thanks to the 2019 30th anniversary Mk4’s heated seats.

Tracing up cliffs overlooking the raging North Sea was surreal. The Mk4 ate up the road like it had been here before. Unlike the previous three generations which all held the speedo pride of place, the rev counter is front and centre on the dashboard, asserting its performance focus. With 181bhp, the Mk4 is no slouch and punches way above its weight, making one question why you’d ever consider spending ten fold on a supercar you’d be too scared to drive on the road.

A year after the fourth generation launched, Mazda reached over 1 million MX-5 sales, cementing its status as one of the world’s best selling sports cars. While each generation’s evolution took a different turn, it’s fundamentally one of the best and most affordable ways of enjoying any B-road the UK has to offer.

On the final approach to John o’ Groats we caught up with a caravan of caravans that we swiftly dispatched to our rear view mirror. It was crunch time and we weren’t about to be crawling behind holidaymakers when the end was in striking distance. We hurtled into the carpark and barely stopped to pull up the handbrake before making a dash for the sign.

We took customary victory pictures and ducked into the nearest shelter, which turned out to be the 8 Doors Distillery, the most northerly in mainland Scotland.

As I sipped on their sherry finished single malt, it felt like a bittersweet ending. I was now well and truly acquainted with the MX-5 lineage, but gutted that none would be making the trip home with me. It’s easy to see why everyone seems to have (or needs to have) an MX-5 story — they’re approachable, overspilling with character and utterly lovable.